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“Polignac.”

“Mamma, ain’t princes very great people?”

“Yes, my dear; sometimes.”

“Is Prince Polly-nac like our Prince Alfred?”

“No, my dear; not at all. At least, I suppose not.”

“Is his mother a queen?”

“No, my dear.”

“Then his father must be a king?”

“No, my dear. It is quite a different thing here. Here in France they have a great many princes.”

“Well, at any rate I should like to see a prince’s chateau; so I do hope you’ll go.” And then there was a pause. “Mamma, could it come to pass, here in France, that M. Lacordaire should ever be a prince?”

“M. Lacordaire a prince! No; don’t talk such nonsense, but mind your work.”

“Isn’t M. Lacordaire a very nice man? Ain’t you very fond of him?”

To this question Mrs. Thompson made no answer.

“Mamma,” continued Mimmy, after a moment’s pause, “won’t you tell me whether you are fond of M. Lacordaire? I’m quite sure of this,– that he’s very fond of you.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Mrs. Thompson, who could not bring herself to refrain from the question.

“Because he looks at you in that way, mamma, and squeezes your hand.”

“Nonsense, child,” said Mrs. Thompson; “hold your tongue. I don’t know what can have put such stuff into your head.”

“But he does, mamma,” said Mimmy, who rarely allowed her mother to put her down.

Mrs. Thompson made no further answer, but again sat with her head resting on her hand. She also, if the truth must be told, was thinking of M. Lacordaire and his fondness for herself. He had squeezed her hand and he had looked into her face. However much it may have been nonsense on Mimmy’s part to talk of such things, they had not the less absolutely occurred. Was it really the fact that M. Lacordaire was in love with her?

And if so, what return should she, or could she make to such a passion? He had looked at her yesterday, and squeezed her hand to- day. Might it not be probable that he would advance a step further to-morrow? If so, what answer would she be prepared to make to him?

She did not think–so she said to herself–that she had any particular objection to marrying again. Thompson had been dead now for four years, and neither his friends, nor her friends, nor the world could say she was wrong on that score. And as to marrying a Frenchman, she could not say she felt within herself any absolute repugnance to doing that. Of her own country, speaking of England as such, she, in truth, knew but little–and perhaps cared less. She had gone to India almost as a child, and England had not been specially kind to her on her return. She had found it dull and cold, stiff, and almost ill-natured. People there had not smiled on her and been civil as M. Lacordaire had done. As far as England and Englishmen were considered she saw no reason why she should not marry M. Lacordaire.

And then, as regarded the man; could she in her heart say that she was prepared to love, honour, and obey M. Lacordaire? She certainly knew no reason why she should not do so. She did not know much of him, she said to herself at first; but she knew as much, she said afterwards, as she had known personally of Mr. Thompson before their marriage. She had known, to be sure, what was Mr. Thompson’s profession and what his income; or, if not, some one else had known for her. As to both these points she was quite in the dark as regarded M. Lacordaire.

Personally, she certainly did like him, as she said to herself more than once. There was a courtesy and softness about him which were very gratifying to her; and then, his appearance was so much in his favour. He was not very young, she acknowledged; but neither was she young herself. It was quite evident that he was fond of her children, and that he would be a kind and affectionate father to them. Indeed, there was kindness in all that he did.